


Of Fights and Men

by zellata



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV), star - Fandom
Genre: AU, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F!Reader - Freeform, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, MMA, Modern AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, biker!AU, biker!mando, soft!Din
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29912922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zellata/pseuds/zellata
Summary: The reader bartends for the Mandalorians, a biker gang. A disgustingly self-indulgent reader insert fic.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. What In The Descriptive Background Narrative.

Ever since you were a little girl, you had gotten in trouble for doling out punches to all the little boys who tried to pinch you. Now, you got paid every time you win by knockout in the ring. You had found an MMA gym in Mos Eisley, and ended up falling in love with the area, the trainers, and the fighting. Eddie, your coach, was a rough around the edges kinda man, but took you in and gave you a task and a purpose in the fighting. Life had somehow settled in scraping by in Mos Eisley for 2 years. Your hard work pays off for your first fight, Eddie screaming at you while you punch and dodge and weave and finally, after two rounds, catch a break and pummel your competitor to the ground. A split lip and a bloody eyebrow later, you help her to her feet, give each other a hug, and you both murmur a quick “good fight, hell of a fight” to each other before the referee holds your hand up.

You had won.

  
You were 18. 

  
Eddie said drinks were in order. You get your competitor’s name (Hannah, and you still keep tabs on her fights), and invite her out, too. The two entourages get whisked to the only bar that anyone can think of that doesn’t have thumping music or blinding lights: Tusker’s, in Nevarro, 20 miles north up the 190. 

  
Tusker’s is quiet, thank god, with some Tom Petty playing softly in the background. A college-age kid or two were around, but they knew better than to make a scene at this bar. The bartender, whom you had a sneaking suspicion was also the owner and only employee, never carded you, shoved a cold Coors in your hand and sack of ice to both you and Hannah, without ever saying a word. Jaylon Tusker, as you soon learned, had the bar for damn near 40 years, and could usually tell what a person needed when they walked through the door. By the time your group was drunk and ready to leave (Hannahs’s coach, disgustingly responsible, was the designated driver), you had an application in your hands and an interview set up for the week after.   
Mos Eisley, not surprisingly, smelled like piss and the inside of Danny Devito’s shoe, and you were more than happy to take the leap on a smaller rent in Nevarro while still driving to and from training with Eddie. Bartending at Tusker’s made enough with tips for a studio apartment rented out by a little old lady whose family had moved her to an assisted care facility. Life was easy. Minus getting repeated punches to the head. But you wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

  
Two years later, Nevarro finally got its first permanent biker gang. Word spread about the group called The Mandalorians, and rumors flew as fast as the women at the 7-11 could talk about it. They were bounty hunters, they were killers, they were worse than Hell’s Angels or The Black Sun. At first, you had been skeptical about any and all news you heard of The Mandalorians; then, on a quiet Monday night, three Mandalorians walked into Tusker’s.

  
They were pleasant enough, ordered the easiest beers for you to get, and never talked down to you. You had a quiet appreciation for their attitude, as the middle of nowhere California tended to allow stupid men to be stupid out loud. And at the end of the night, they tipped well, left their trash in a neat pile, and gave you a quick fist bump to thank you for the hospitality.   
You never quite got their names. 

  
The next two weeks were filled with more and more Mandalorians coming in and checking the place their buddies had apparently described as “fucking chill”. There were a few grumpy old men, naturally, as any bike club ought to have, but a number of them were younger, scruffy, and looked like recruitment for ex-Army models. Not that you were complaining. You finally got the courage to ask names, and since it was a slow night, they sat you down and explained the Mandalorian tradition.  
“So… you just, never go by your name at all, anymore, forever, never ever…..” You questioned.  
“Yes, since we do -” a quick elbow to the ribs cut Blondie off (you had nicknamed them to keep them all straight in your head). “Well, we don’t use our real names, but we take easy to forget names, just .. ya know... In case...” Blondie trailed off, eyeing his buddies' elbows warily.  
“So what can I call you?” You push.

  
Blondie introduces himself as Jack, his darker hair compatriots who elbowed him went by Charlie, and a silent one at the end of the table was Jones. 

  
“And together, you all are The Mandalorians?” you questioned again.

  
A silence and fidgeting was the only response.

  
Jones finally spoke up, “It might be easier for you if you just call us Mando’s”.

  
“Oh I don’t mind using the full name, it seems like tradition is important to you guys-” you were cut off by Jack shaking his head.

  
“No, let me rephrase. It might be safer for you to say Mando.” He moved to get up and threw a bill on the table for the beers and food they had ordered; you had just sat there in stunned silence.  
Jones, Pedro, Rich, and Alex ended up being the four Mandos you saw the most. At least, these were the names they gave you; from your previous conversation with “Charlie” and “Jack”, these were the closest to their names you could get with Mandalorian tradition. When they first walked in together, you had been taken aback. You had known Jones for a month or so, and he always intimidated you with his size, his shaved head, and a jagged, faded scar running down the left side of his face. Rich and Alex must have been brothers, light brown hair and sun-reddened faces held their dark blues eyes in contrast, and their joking nature had made them your easiest table by a long shot. Pedro was different from Rich and Alex in his quietness. He took after Jones, stoic ease about him, but damn when he smiled it made your heart flutter. And if you caught his face after you had cracked a joke, his smile even reached his eyes, lighting up deep chocolate and showcasing faint crow lines around his eyes. 

  
Eventually, you saw the four Mandos twice a week, three times, four, five times a week, and you had a sneaking suspicion the group only came in when you were working. Jaylon had asked how the group was treating you since he never saw them anymore.

  
“What do you mean you never see them?” you asked incredulously.

  
“They never come in on Monday or Tuesday.” He explains, and you chuckle at the thought that these four bikers had taken to like a 20-year-old more than Jaylon who could joke on their level with them. 

  
Your life settles again into a comfortable routine. Train, fight, pour drinks. Jaylon has an inkling you are still training with Eddie, but he doesn’t bring it up since you don’t bring it up. 

  
You lose your next fight; Eddie slinging your arm around his shoulder as you're pulled from the cage and checked by the match doctor. A solid concussion and bloody eye take you from training for a month and you’re stir crazy, but you make it back to the gym eventually. No one from Tusker’s is particularly happy about the injuries you sustain mysteriously, but you refuse to clue them in. Maybe you were just too stubborn to share your MMA with others, a vestige of not having anything of your own from childhood, call it a desire to be as mysterious as they are.   
The Mando’s reveal their life in bits and pieces over the year, tongues loosened by an on the house shot if you really wanted to get them talking. Jones keeps his lips tight, never spilling the group’s secrets, but the drunker he got, the more Jack, Rich, and Alex shared that didn’t get cut-off. You learn they’re bounty hunters one night. The next Friday, you learn contracts are only ever taken if the group decides the bounty is morally bad (you appreciate this sentiment, and thank God… Gods... someone that they won’t come after you for stealing ramen from a 7-11 once in Barstow).  
The morning after Rich lets that slip, the regular group comes to the bar earlier than usual, during the dead hour before most get off work. You think the worst when they converge on the bar, cornering you with their faces set in a mask.

  
“I.. I promise, I promise I heard nothing, I can keep a secret I promise..” You manage to squeak out, trying your hardest to keep your voice strong in the face of 4 men who you knew could easily make sure.

  
Jones opened and quickly shut his mouth; Pedro stitched his eyebrows together like you begging to be safe was the hardest thing he could comprehend.

  
“No, what? No!” Pedro spluttered. Jones spoke after, “ No, no, we wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  
You stared incredulously. “Me? Okay?” you questioned.

  
“Yeah, since, you know, you found out what the Mando’s do…” Jones trailed off again. 

  
You laughed abruptly, your heart and stomach in their rightful place again. “Oh my fucking god, start with that next time, I thought you guys were going to kill me now that I know.”

  
Pedro cuts you off - “No! I - We could never…” He gets talked over by Alex.

  
“Listen if you were gonna get got we woulda got get you by now,” Alex laughs, and your eyes went wide, but you managed a small chuckle. They don’t bring it up again, and you don’t push the subject. 

  
When they come in with small injuries they couldn’t reach, you made sure to slide some bandaids and alcohol wipes under the plates. You kept the bathrooms stocked with a medium-sized med kit, hidden behind the cleaning supplies, but the number of times you refilled it had you more worried than you thought you should be over a couple of bikers who knew what they were doing.  
The Mando’s kept coming in, and when summer hit and all the University of Las Vegas students came home, the Mandos stepped up whenever they could. Jones ran point on keeping the most belligerent out. Rich and Alex constantly outdrank, and subsequently dragged out, the frat bros who bothered you. Pedro, ever watchful from his favorite barstool at the end of the bar, made sure you got to your car at the end of the night. 

  
You keep the Mando’s in line, and they keep you safe.


	2. Fuck Greg and the Horse He Rode In On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've never met a good Greg in your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am TOO excited about this story to not post more.  
> Please note: this chapter, and most of the story, has graphic violence and mentions of blood, violence, fighting, and sex acts.  
> READ WITH CAUTION.  
> If the name Greg is as repulsive to you as it is to me, please read, he does get whooped.

Well, The Mandos try to keep you safe.

Bar fights are uncommon, but you hold your own, thank you very much. You've been able to handle most of the unruly customers, except Greg.

God damn, you've never met a good Greg in your life.

He's been loud, unruly, and downright mean to you ever since you clocked in. You’ve seen him here before, and every time he's been here his rowdiness has amped up. None of the Mando’s have had a problem with him, except… he whistles at you to bring him a drink. You ignore him at first, and he just whistles louder and you hear a gruff “Girl, get over here! Jesus fuck, the service is shit.”

The bar goes silent.

Greg uses the silence to wave you over again, so you wipe your hands on your apron and make your way over to him, near the entrance to the bar opening. Pedro is eyeing your back as you make your way, glass in hand to pour the asshole another drink.

Greg eyes you warily as you walk towards him, voicing his displeasure. “Girl, you’re slower than a brick shoe. Whatever happened to good service?”

You slow the pour to make sure he has a little too much foam at the top, and in your most saccharine voice, “Why, I’m just trying to make sure everyone is happy here, Sir”. You throw in an eyelash bat for good measure.

“You know how to make everyone happy here? You could get on your knee- “ Greg can’t finish the sentence before your blood boils, the beer crashes to the floor, and your fist is flying to make contact with Greg’s nose. He should be thanking his fat head for once because the sucker punch doesn't faze him, he just grabs your shirt collar and drags you from behind the bar. You throw a flurry of whatever punches you think you can land on him, and you can see he’s getting slower and slower blocking them.

He gets one lucky punch in when Pedo tries to intervene after jumping up and making his way around the bar, causing you to try and push him back out and get caught in a hook that sends you reeling to the floor. As soon as you realize Greg is already on top and aiming to take your face off, there's not much you can do. Greg is 300 pounds drunk, mediocre, and angry in a way only a man who got whatever he wanted but was never satisfied could be; him exerting what he thought was dominance was the best he could ever do. They call it ground and pound for a reason in MMA; Greg hammers at your face, attempting to make your face into ground beef. Thankfully, Greg is about a good puncher as he is a smooth talker, so you have an easier time blocking his punches until you hear Jones’ voice arguing with Pedro in the background. Your head snaps up to try and focus…

_WHAM_

Greg's fat forehead slams into your eye.

The motherfucker just _headbutted_ you.

Eyes watering and a telltale trickle of wetness from your nose to your lips, you bridge and bridge hard. Greg can't regain his balance as you buck from underneath him, and slams his head on the ground, narrowly missing your head again. You get an arm under his ham of a leg and finally shove him off, placing your belly to the floor and you face near his chest and land one (1) good elbow to his face before Pedro is pulling you off the floor and into his arms. Some patrons who had been watching whisper while the Mando's drag a bloody Greg outside.

Pedro’s hands come up to your face as he inspects your nose and something up near your hairline, thick fingers ghosting over what seems to be a wound you hadn’t felt. A harsh ringing is slowly growing in your ears and little stars dance across your peripherals, making it hard to focus on the fingers rubbing your cheek, or the hand on your hair, or the warm body holding you up in strong arms.

You lied.

You can focus, but only on the body in front of you. The body that’s whispering in Spanish. “Oh Dios Mio querida...” he breaths, mouth barely moving and you can hardly catch the words.

The world gets a little bit fuzzier. You struggle to keep as conscious as possible with blood trickling down your face and warm, strong arms wrapped around your waist. You take a deep breath and open your mouth to tell Greg off, wherever he is, only to find your head reeling and eyes glaze over. A broad hand at the back of your head gently pushes till your bloody face finds an equally broad chest.

"Fuck you bud, you're fucking banned" you try to yell as your head rests on Pedro’s shoulder, but it comes out a bit higher pitch than you really wanted.

So much for being tough.


	3. Are You A Couple Or Did He Just Pull You Out Of A Street Fight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick trip to the hospital has Pedro beating himself up for not doing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has medical procedures in it! If that's a no-go for you, then it's a no-go for you. 
> 
> Mentions of blood, stitches, concussions, and medical procedures. The dove is only slightly injured, and technically you could eat it.

Pedro takes one look at your injuries, and he motions for Alex to come grab hold of you while he grabs your backpack from below the bar, keys, and wallet therein.   
As you get hoisted back into Pedro’s arms, and he leads you outside, his shoulders get tense as you recognize the face of Jones looking at you, and a slight way behind him, shadowy figures slowing to a still. Eyes still starry and you still not all in it, you dismissed what looked like pipes in their hands.

  
You wondered vaguely where they had taken Greg.

  
_Thank God_ , you think, as Pedro opens your car door, _I refuse to fall off the back of that damned motorcycle._

  
“Alex,”, you hear the faint voice of… Jones? “Go with, eyes open,” he finished.

  
You heard Alex respond with a faint “This is the Way”, and the loud roar of motorcycles as your car lurches forward and starts going too fast down the road. The stars at the edges of your vision blue into white streaks past your eyes, and you finally feel your head grow pain that your adrenaline has pushed down in the moment. A groan escapes your lips and you reach a shaky hand up to try and feel what was bleeding on your forehead, but Pedro’s catches you before you can loosen the blood coagulating there. He holds on to your hand, glancing at you as he drives behind Alex.  
“No, hey, no stop that” he murmurs, seeing you try to keep the tears welling in your eyes from falling. His thumb gently rubs circles at the base of your thumb. You sniff your tears back up and try to compose yourself.

  
“‘M sorry, it’s not that bad, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  
Pedro huffs, “Not that bad? I just saw you take a headbutt just to whip around and give that fucker an elbow”. 

  
You smile slightly as you tilt your head on the headrest to look at him. He’s staring straight forward, tension in his jaw, yet his thumb never stops moving. It’s a calming distraction from the pounding headache that’s come over you, one you can almost feel in your stomach.

  
“I think I’ll just take a nap… are… are we going to the hospital?” you whisper as you close your eyes, the white streaks soaring in your peripherals fading as you do.

  
“Hey, Hey no, don’t do that,” Pedro says, sharper than his reassurances earlier. “Stay awake for me, don’t take a nap”.

  
“‘Mmm, no, I’m just gonna close my eyes.”

  
“You need to stay awake, Just a little longer, okay, stay up for me.”

  
You sigh, focus dawning slightly on exactly how soft his words are. Pedro looks at you, and you widen your eyes so he can see they’re not closed and give him a sarcastic look.  
“Geez, I thought you guys would be happy about a bartender getting knocked out, you could have kept the beer going all night.” You try to joke, but it comes out a little slower than you would have liked.

  
Pedro’s eyes are back on the road, but you see them narrow as his eyebrows curl in frustration. “Now why on earth would... the Mandos be happy about their pequeña gallina getting fucked up by that asshole…” He trails off and slides his eyes back in your direction for a fraction, checking to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep. You catch his glance with your own, and he turns his back to the road and clears his throat. “You’ve always been our bartender, ever since we got into town.” His lips drew tight into a strained line. “We take care of each other, we take care of our family. This is the Way.”

  
This isn’t the first time you had heard that phrase, but you had never commented on it. Chalked it up to “Mando tradition” and not wanting to intrude too much.

  
“Hey... Pedro?” You ask. He nods once in acknowledgment.

  
“What does ‘This is the Way’ mean?”

  
You see Pedro suck a small breath in and it’s quiet for a moment.

  
When Pedro finally answers, it's in a reverent voice. “This is the way, is an acknowledgment to our creed. The Mandalorians all took the same creed when we joined the group.” He stopped and flicked his eyes to you, and when you didn’t say anything, he continued.

  
“Don’t tell the guys I told you all this, okay?” He softly pleads less of a command, and more of a hope to share something with you. You nod in agreement and hold your pinky out with a small smile. His response is less of a grin and just the corners of his mouth getting lighter, but he returns your pinky promise in like.

  
“Our creed is how we live our life. It’s the set of rules that keep us safe, on our jobs with... you know. Education and armor, Self-defense, our tribe, Our language, our leader— All help us survive.” he recited the lines like a children's rhyme. “When I first joined, I was young, and I had to memorize it. Jones taught me the easiest way like I was a kid.” A small smile flits across Pedro’s face as he takes a pause. “Education and armor: you learn how to follow a bounty, you learn how to be self-sufficient. Your armor is your motorcycle, your gun.” Your eyes widen when he mentions a weapon; you had never seen any of the Mando carry. He catches your reaction and taps your hand where he had continued to rub circles. “Hey, we don’t bring the guns into the bar, that's illegal in California.” You let the breath you had been holding out. It made sense really, why on earth wouldn’t the bounty hunters carry guns. As long as Pedro wa- no. As long as all the Mandos were safe, you settled on.

  
“Jaylon keeps a shotgun in that closet of an office, so I doubt you would get in trouble if you did…” Pedro just shakes his head at your musing. 

  
“You wanna debate gun laws or do you wanna hear the rest of the code?” He counters. You just purse your lips in acquiescence, and Pedro continues.

  
“Self defense, our tribe, our leader. We take care of ourselves, we take care of our family, found or born. We follow our leader.”

  
“Jones,” you reply, a statement more than a question. Pedro nods. You had seen from the beginning how the Mandos had given him light ribbing, asking questions when necessary, but following his orders. Just like tonight. Jones had laid out a plan, no questions were asked, and the plan was executed. 

  
“Our language is what ties us together. We all agree that this is the way. So when we acknowledge that, we agree to the code again.”

  
“I like that,” you say after he finishes. “Do you have to hunt bounties to be a Mandalorian?” you ask.

  
“You’re not joining.” Pedros face falls flat, almost angry. His hand pulls away and you hear a small sigh as a bump over a curb rattles you a little harder than you want. “We’re here, hold on.”  
He pulls into the roundabout in front of the Mos Eisley Mercy Hospital. 

  
“Mos Eisley?” you ask. It didn’t feel like you drove 20 miles, but it had been dark out and the headache made it hard to concentrate.

  
“Yeah, they have a better ER than Nevarro. I don’t even think the InstaCare is open in Nevarro right now,” Pedro explains as he helps pull you from the car. He winds his arm around your side and you take the opportunity to rest your head on his shoulder, but not before noticing the blood on his shirt.

  
“Pedro? Did you get hurt too?” You feel panic rise slightly, you thought you had made sure Greg wasn’t going to hurt anyone else.

  
“It’s your blood, carina,” he replies softly, looking down to the top of your head. You could imagine Pedro placing a small kiss to the top of your- nope, stop, not right now, he’s not interested in you like that, just worried about the girl who the group puts up with for beer- your mind tries to shut down the thought.

  
Nurses at the check-in station take one look at you and immediately get to work. A wheelchair appears from somewhere and you’re whisked away to a room with two beds, separated by a curtain. A pair of warm hands you recognize and a cold pair you don’t help you to stand and layback down on the gurney. The nurse pulls Pedro away to get his account of what happened and what first aid he applied; which gives another nurse at your side time to confirm your medical history hasn’t changed, and reminded you that there are avenues of help if you feel unsafe.  
You smile and shake your head.

  
“Ma’am, you know I can handle myself, but thank you. Just a bar fight gone wrong, and an overprotective bar crowd,” you reply and she nods, pats your hand and gets back to work setting up monitors and blood pressure devices.

  
Anne, the nurse that treated you before, is the model of professionalism, which you silently thank her for. She doesn’t bring up any of your history, or your fight while Pedro is sitting stone still in the room. You can finally relax. Medical professionals whirl about the room in a well-choreographed dance that you’ve seen before, yet will never get tired of. It’s a calm process, having a nurse clean your face up, exposing the forehead gash, and cleaning the blood up from under your nose. She tuts as she runs a light finger along your under-eye, and you know you’ll have a black eye by tomorrow. 

  
The doctor leaves, waiting for nurses to finish cleaning up your face and setting up the stitch kit on a clean tray. You can see Pedro eyeing it, and finally eyeing you.

  
“Are you nervous?” His question hangs in the air for a moment before you respond.  
“No.”

  
Minutes pass, until finally, the doctor comes back in and with a calm bedside manner, explains exactly how many stitches you’ll need. They were content with the earlier assessment that your skull hadn’t been cracked (you could have told them that), but that the gash was just wide and deep enough from the head butt that they would prefer you get stitches to help it heal. The doctor applies a topical anesthetic and apologizes that it will still feel weird. 

  
As the needle pierces your skin, you wince. You’ll never get used to stitches, no matter how many times you’ll get them. Pedro moves to your side and without thinking, the second stitch sends your hand up to his to squeeze. His other hand comes down to ghost over the top of your hand.

  
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “I'm so sorry.”

  
“Jesus, for what Pedro?” You wince again.

  
“Not stopping this,” he replies, his eyes fixated on the doctor working.

  
“Cut yourself some slack, he was being an ass, and I banned him from the bar.”

  
“But I could hav-”

  
“No.” You cut him off. “No, it happened, it’s done, we’re here. Don’t blame yourself.” 

  
Pedro falls silent, watching the doctor work, and letting you squeeze his hand as you get 5 (five! Jesus, Greg has a strong ass head) stitches.

  
The doctor finishes the work with some medical tape and instructions for pain medication. 

  
“Now, I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion, so have someone monitor you tonight, if need be come back in as soon as these symptoms occur,” and with no hesitation, Pedro takes the pamphlet on traumatic brain injuries from the doctor.

  
Neither of you talks for the next hour, letting the nurses whir about, and finally discharge you. You thank the nurse as she finishes your paperwork, and hands you some more information so you can keep track of symptoms. Pedro clears his throat and places a hand at the small of your back, letting you lead the way to the front of the ER room and the parking lot.   
Alex’s eyes shot up to the both of you as you made your way to where he had apparently moved your car from the roundabout; his bike was right next to it, and he was leaning on the seat scrolling through his phone. “Hey, you guys, look who’s not dead!” he smiled and nodded once to Pedro, although Pedro just shot him dagger eyes back.

  
“Not dead, so I’m pretty sure I can’t die.” You shot back. “Thanks for figuring out the car situation.” Alex just shakes his head at your thanks.

  
“No problem. Who would we get to pour our beers if you weren’t there? I’m lazy. I don’t wanna do that,” he shrugs and motions to your car. “Pedro, you wanna make sure she gets home?” He tosses the keys to Pedro. “I’m going back to check… check on Jones” he finishes, but Pedro is already unlocking the car and holding your hand to get you in the passenger seat.

  
The trip back to Nevarro is much, much quieter than your frantic drive to Mos Eisley. No one was on the road, but no one was usually on the 190. It was fucking Death Valley, for God's Sake. A twenty-minute drive was shortened to 15 at the speeds Pedro was going, but you do the same when you're late for training, so you keep your mouth shut. The turn-off for your apartment comes and goes, even though you told him where to exit.

  
“Hey, what? Where are we going?” You raise your voice, panic rising in your throat as he takes the subsequent exit.

  
“I’m gonna watch you for a concussion.” It sounds like a command, not a request.

  
“I can do that at home,” you try to protest.

  
“I know for a fact that you’ll just go home and watch crime shows all night,” he states. “Nice try, but you need a dark room, food, and someone to double-check.”

  
You exhale sharply, amazed he could call you out like this. Your car pulls into a small driveway, and you’re whisked into a dimly lit living room. It was bigger than your studio, you gave him that, but you can’t tell exactly how big the apartment is since Pedro never turns the lights on.

  
He guides you to his bed, and you search for his eyes as he turns the corners of the bed down so you can get in.

  
“Wha- where are you going to sleep?”

  
“I’m not sleeping, I’m going to make you some soup and then check on you every fucking hour so I know if I need to bring you back to the hospital,” he states as you snuggle deeper into soft cotton sheets. Sheets that smell like Pedro; warm amber, something musky, and sweat.

  
“I’ll be right back,” he says as he slips out of the room, closing the door to make it pitch black. Soft kitchen noises come through, and your brain is slowly calming down, closing one window after another when you have too many tabs open on your laptop.

  
You’re not sure how long it’s been, but the door creaks open as he comes back into the room with a big mug full of … something, but it smells amazing. Hunger hits you since you haven't eaten since that protein shake after training and the sandwich before your shift. Almost 8 hours ago.

  
Slurping noises fill the room as you down the soup, belly finally half full as the warmth makes you sleepy. You close your eyes as Pedro takes the mug back from you, tiredness finally settling into your bones. A full belly, a comfy bed, and the knowledge that there's at least one gun-wielding biker in the apartment to keep you safe, and your childhood brain deems it safe to sleep here.  
You’re almost asleep as soon as you blink your eyes a few times.

  
You almost hear Pedro whisper as you fade from consciousness.  
“I’m right here, don’t worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, just one big ball of disgusting self-insert fanfiction. I'm not particularly happy with my formatting on this chapter, but hey, what do I know.

**Author's Note:**

> zellata on tumblr  
> Beta'd by magical_little_fool


End file.
